Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

They wandered the Ashlands for hours.

Each mile deeper brought stranger sights—twisted effigies built from limbs, burnt-out buses filled with bones, and trees carved into grotesque silhouettes of worship. Every path pointed toward "The Spine," a jagged rock formation said to be the cult's central altar.

The girl, still unconscious, muttered in her sleep—words in a dead language. Lena and Ward tried not to listen, but the air vibrated each time she spoke. Even the insects dared not come near her.

By nightfall, they reached the valley.

And saw them.

Dozens—maybe hundreds—of the Cult of Decay gathered around bonfires of rotting meat and burning scripture. They wore stitched skin over their own and bore broken weapons turned ceremonial. Above them, hanging from the rocks like a crown of corpses, were zombies—displayed, preserved, adored.

They were not feared here.

They were revered.

Ward whispered, "They don't just worship the dead. They worship what walks."

Lena replied, "They believe infection is divinity."

They spotted a central platform carved from obsidian. Upon it stood a priest with no eyes, holding a staff tipped with a human jawbone.

He spoke to the masses, voice booming.

HIGH PREACHER MARROW:

"In the walking rot, we find purpose. In decay, we ascend. Let us prepare the offering."

That's when they brought out the hostages—four ragged people bound and blindfolded. One of them was still in a Virex uniform.

Lena gritted her teeth.

"If they bleed them, the swarm will come."

Ward raised his rifle. "Then we cause a stampede and steal the chaos."

But before they moved, the girl woke.

She sat up and opened her eyes—glowing faintly blue.

"I need to go down there," she said. "They're waiting for me."

"What are you talking about?" Lena asked.

"I saw this already. In the flames. I can stop it—but I have to touch the altar."

Before Lena could object, the girl walked out into the open, toward the congregation.

And they parted for her.

Marrow froze mid-sermon, recognizing her.

"The Vessel returns," he breathed.

Lena and Ward scrambled into position. From a nearby ridge, Ward used a mirror shard to angle sunlight—directing it to set a nearby vat of flammable waste ablaze.

Boom.

A fiery shockwave tore through the side of the camp. Screams rose. Zombies chained at the edges broke free in the chaos.

Lena charged down to the platform.

She saw the girl place her hand on the black stone altar—and the earth quaked.

Every zombie in sight froze.

Then turned their heads, in perfect unison, toward her.

The cult fell to their knees. Some wept. Others clawed their own skin, begging to be infected.

Marrow backed away, horrified.

"You're not the Vessel. You're the Rejection."

The girl opened her mouth—and ash poured out.

Not words. Just ash.

The horde surged.

Lena pulled the girl from the altar just as the zombies attacked—indiscriminately.

Cultist. Human. Doesn't matter.

What they worshipped had walked.

And it did not forgive.